How Spam Gets Made
by arandomshipper
Summary: The ingredients: Unsightly. The process: Questionable. The results: Well, let's just say it's an acquired taste. This is how spam gets made.


Disclaimer: I don't own, I just ship.

 **How Spam Gets Made**

He turned off the welder and flipped the mask up with a frown. Was that..yep, there it was again. Knocking at his door. It was disorienting. The last people to knock at his door were those Mormons, and that was what, a year ago? He was torn between getting up to answer and going right back to welding, but in the end, sheer curiosity had him removing his mask and apron and getting up to see who was there. Probably Mormons again. No one ever visited him except Carly, and she wouldn't travel that kind of distance without advance notice. She wouldn't knock, either.

When he answered the door he was completely frozen in shock. It was the last person he expected. Well, maybe not the _last_ person, Hitler risen from the dead to stop in for a chat may have been a little higher on the list, for example, but seeing _HER_ in the doorway was nevertheless very, very unexpected. Not so much that she was THERE, though he really wasn't expecting that either, but what was really surprising was...

"Since when do you knock?"

"I left my lockpick set in my other pants. Didn't feel like breaking the door down." She replied casually. Then they just stood there staring at each other for ages, thoughts and feelings shooting through him so fast he couldn't even begin to process them all, until finally she brushed past him, dropped her backpack on the floor, and went straight to the refrigerator, erasing ten years in the blink of an eye. "Got anything to eat in here?" She asked pointlessly, already examining the contents with the efficiency of long years of practice.

Spenser shook his head to clear it. "Um, yeah. There should be some leftover spaghetti tacos in the..." He trailed off, seeing as she was already stuffing her face with them.

Every movement painfully familiar, she brought her food to the living room with her, dropped onto the couch, and flipped on the television. "I'm gonna crash here for a while. Blankets still in the closet?"

Spenser, who had been spacing out from sheer nostalgia watching her, was startled out of his trance. "Wait, what? Why?"

"Broke up with my boyfriend. I would've kicked him out instead, but I'd just lost my job, so I'd have been evicted soon anyway." She didn't spare him a glance, nor did she pause her ravenous devouring of the food, masking her voice to the average person, but experience made her words as clear as day for Spencer.

The myriad of emotions the information incited for him combined to form the one that was the most common when dealing with her: Irritation.

"So go make up with him. You can't stay here."

Sam looked at him long-sufferingly. "Suuure I can't."

"No, I'm being serious. You. Can't. Stay. Here."

She sighed. "Okay, look. Maybe I wasn't quite being totally honest. I didn't break up with him. He broke up with me. He kicked me out. Alright? I can't just make up with him."

"Apologize, then."

"Uh, no. The thing he kicked me out for isn't something I can just apologize for. It's kind of an ongoing situation that I don't really have control over, and he's not going to change his mind about it, either. That bridge is burned."

"Go somewhere else, then! Anywhere else! You can't stay here!" Spenser exploded.

She crossed her arms and set her jaw stubbornly. "No. I don't want to, and I don't have anywhere else to go, anyway. Why can't I just stay here? Why, huh? It was never a problem before!"

"Don't," He said in a dangerous voice, "Make me talk about that."

She stood and walked up to him, each step diliberate, the set of her jaw increasing in force still further. Even staring nearly a foot down at her to meet her eyes, she had always been able to make him feel small at will. "Maybe I want to talk about it."

He steeled himself against her intimidation and met her stubbornness for stubbornness. "No. No discussion. You're leaving. Now."

"Make me."

She didn't think he actually would, he could tell. But he couldn't budge on this. Her surprise couldn't have been more complete when he threw her over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, rendering all her strength useless in one quick move. She yelled and kicked and squirmed, but she couldn't stop a single step toward the door. But when he had almost reached it, she yelled something a bit more coherent that froze him in his tracks.

"I'm pregnant!"

Spencer slowly set her down, his head in a fog. "Pregnant?" He asked in a small voice.

"Pregnant." She confirmed.

"Baby?" He pointed at her belly.

"Baby." She gave her belly a pat. "Now. You still wanna kick me out? Us out?"

He didn't need to speak. They both knew the answer to that question.


End file.
